


Sister of my heart

by Elesianne



Series: Éomer and Lothíriel [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Female Relationships, Fourth Age, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Not angsty, Post-Lord of the Rings, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Queen Lothíriel's cousin and lady-in-waiting Sírdhem receives sad news from Gondor, and Lothíriel realises how important they have become to each other.I wanted to write a little fic about bonds of friendship between women for Tolkien Gen Week.
Series: Éomer and Lothíriel [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645771
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	Sister of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Sírdhem is an OC, Lothíriel's younger cousin, whom I created for the sequel to [my Lothíriel/Éomer fics](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645771). That sequel is not yet in posting shape but all you need to know about Sírdhem to read this fic is in this fic.
> 
>  **Warning:** Discussion about the death of a character (offscreen OC). And while this fic is not about pregnancy or childbirth, there are mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, including one where a character briefly describes some negative sides of childbirth.

It is not an uncommon occurrence for a messenger to arrive from Gondor and ask to be brought to the queen rather than the king, and Lothíriel always receives them eagerly. So does Sírdhem, her cousin who came to Rohan with her to be one of her ladies-in-waiting.

This time it is Sírdhem who rises and takes the letters from deeply-bowing young man for standing up has become arduous for Lothíriel of late. This afternoon it is particularly difficult because her older child sits on the floor clinging to her leg and her younger one naps in her lap.

Sírdhem beckons over a serving girl to take the messenger to the kitchens for a hearty meal.

'I was told to wait for a reply, my lady', he says, hesitating in front of Lothíriel. He is a new one.

'Messengers from Gondor are always told to wait', she says. 'Go and eat. You will be sent for when you are needed. If that is not until tomorrow, Sírdhem will make sure you are found lodgings for the night.'

Sírdhem nods at the messenger. It is one of her usual duties.

With another deep bow, the young man departs with the serving girl towards the kitchens.

Sírdhem hands Lothíriel four letters sealed with bright blue wax and one with black, and sits down to read her own letter.

'I see that my family have been prolific letter-writers this month', Lothíriel says as she eyes the letters. Her ladies laugh. Over the four years Lothíriel has been in Rohan, they have had to listen to many complaints about Lothíriel's brothers not writing enough.

Lothíriel opens the letter with her sister-in-law's handwriting first. She wants to know how her niece and nephews have recovered from their spring colds.

Very well, it seems, based on how much the trouble their mother writes they have got into since then, Lothíriel reads with a smile.

She raises her head when she hears a sob.

Sírdhem has the hand not clutching her letter in front of her mouth, and tears in her eyes.

'What is it, Sírdhem?' Lothíriel drops her own letter to the floor, hands her sleeping two-year-old to Cuthfleda and tries to peel Elfwine from her leg. It is difficult with her large belly in the way. 'Darling, let go. Mama needs to speak to Sírdhem.'

'No', says Elfwine. He has not been having a good day.

Estrun hurries over and lifts Elfwine into her strong arms, promising him a spoonful of jam with his evening meal if he behaves and lets his mother go without a fuss.

Lothíriel would voice her disagreement with such a child-raising method but she needs to get to Sírdhem. Using the armrests of her chair for support, she gets herself to her feet and takes a few waddling steps that take her to her cousin.

She doesn't repeat her question. It is clear enough that something is badly wrong in Anfalas, in Sírdhem's home. Lothíriel touches her arm and says gently, 'Come. Let us leave the hall.'

Sírdhem nods, and keeps her usually proud head bowed.

There are some downsides to spending their afternoon hours in the main room of the mead-hall. A total lack of privacy is one of them.

Leaning on each other, Lothíriel and Sírdhem make their way to Lothíriel's sitting room.

There, with a numb voice and a grey face, Sírdhem says, 'Belegon is dead.'

Belegon was Sírdhem's older brother, the only one of her brothers that survived the war. 'I am sorry', says Lothíriel, swallowing tears herself at once, taking Sírdhem's hand. 'So very sorry.' There is little else she can say.

'I hoped so –' Sírdhem swallows loudly, too. 'He was just beginning to sound more like himself in his letters, after years of him being almost a stranger since he rode home from Minas Tirith. I hoped so that he would…' And she begins to cry, hard enough that her whole body shakes, loud enough that Lothíriel's heart aches for her.

'Oh, my dear.' Lothíriel holds her, sniffling through her own tears as she pets Sírdhem's hair. 'I am so sorry', she whispers. 'I am sorry you lost him, too. I am sorry you weren't there.'

Lothíriel pulls her close and holds Sírdhem as she mourns another loss.

When Sírdhem's desperate sobs fade to calmer ones, perhaps only because of exhaustion, Lothíriel makes her sit and fetches her wine from the table in the corner of the room. Gondorian women need wine for fortification in moments like this, Lothíriel believes, even if those Gondorian women have been living in Rohan for four years.

When she returns to Sírdhem she finds her with the letter still in her hands, crumpled and tear-stained.

'He died in a hunting accident', Sírdhem says after emptying the cup of wine very fast. Her brows draw to an angry frown even as tears continue falling down her face. 'For all that he had seen of death, for how little was left of our family, for how young his children are – I would have thought he'd have taken more care. He should have taken more care!'

Lothíriel listens quietly. She has seen enough loss, if not experienced much of it herself, to know that anger is often a part of it for those who are left behind.

When Sírdhem falls to silence suddenly, Lothíriel says, 'You can leave tomorrow if you wish. Éomer will give you a guard of good men and swift horses, and I will send word to Minas Tirith by messenger who will arrive before you so there will be a ship ready in Harlond to take you to the coast and to Anfalas as fast as is possible.'

'What does that matter? What does it matter if I even go home?' Sírdhem rises and paces the room. 'No matter how swift the horses and ships, I won't be there in any meaningful time. They will have buried him already in the time it took for this letter to reach me. It is summer –' her words fall to sobs as she mentions the horrible, undignified reality of death.

'You can comfort your sister-in-law', says Lothíriel for lack of anything better to say, though she knows that Sírdhem and her sister-in-law are not close at all. 'You can visit Belegon's grave.'

'Indeed, his grave.' Sírdhem turns suddenly to Lothíriel, her skirts swishing around her legs. They are of finest red wool and embroidered by Sírdhem's own masterful hand. 'I have never been so glad that I came here as I am now, Lothíriel. I doubted my decision then, since I did not even know you well before we came here, but I am glad now that I chose Rohan. There is nothing left for me in Anfalas, nothing but graves to weep and rage upon. My parents, all of my brothers. All of the family I grew up with is gone.'

'I am sorry', Lothíriel says again, helplessly.

'I suppose I should go. I suppose I want to visit those graves though I hate them, too. And to not go would seem terribly hard-hearted of me.' Sírdhem comes and sits down in the chair next to Lothíriel's.

'If I go, I won't be here for your baby's birth', she says to Lothíriel, her voice no less fierce yet. 'And your mother won't be here either. It's too late, most likely, to ask her to come.'

Lothíriel suppresses a sigh. Her mother has been unwell, her father told her in his last letter, still not quite recovered from the illness she had late in winter that made her cough violently for weeks. So Lothíriel had written her and told her that she didn't need to travel to Rohan to support Lothíriel when she gives birth. It is her third time after all, she wrote, and she would have her ladies with her who have become close friends to her, Sírdhem especially.

Lothíriel says to Sírdhem, 'I will not lie to you and say that I won't miss you when I'm scared and in pain and cursing myself that I agreed to this northern horse-lord's proposal that took me so far away from my family.

'But I will be all right. We have been here so long now, you and I, that we have people here who… well, they are not family, but they care about us and we care about them. I will have Bledwyn and Cuthfleda, who have both have several children and know how it is, and Estrun and Godliss, and Guthild too, and the wise midwife who has safely got me through two births already.'

She takes Sírdhem's hand. 'Go home to Anfalas, dear, grieve and pay your respects. Take as much time as you need, and spend a few days in Dol Amroth on your way back. Rest a little for the rest of the long journey, and get all the gossip that you can from our aunt and from my sister-in-law.'

Sírdhem's mouth tugs into a smile, though her reddened eyes stay serious. 'I will find out for you whether that rumour about Amrothos courting your father's steward's daughter is true.'

She squeezes Lothíriel's hand for a moment. 'I will go write a reply to my sister-in-law, tell her that I am coming.'

'And I to the dockmaster in Harlond.' Lothíriel begins the process of standing up, and Sírdhem hurries to help her. 'Thank you. Sírdhem dear… there will be easier times for you', Lothíriel tells her. 'You have been given more than your fair share of sorrow, but you will bear it all and it will pass, and there will be new summers.'

She stands there for a moment looking at Sírdhem, her younger cousin who came with her to Rohan at only seventeen years old, still grieving for her mother whom she had lost not so long ago. And now she grieves for a family member again; but in between, she has found her own place in the court in Meduseld, and become Lothíriel's best friend.

Lothíriel is very proud of her, of the tall, smart young woman she has become. Her heart aches and rebels for all the grief that Sírdhem has had to bear.

'I will pray for a safe journey for you', Lothíriel says, finding herself close to tears again. 'Good waves for sailing, but no storm.'

Sírdhem embraces her. 'And I will pray for a safe delivery for you.' She sighs, a trembling sound. 'I will miss you too.'

*

Many weeks of autumn have passed by the time Sírdhem returns. Lothíriel hurries out of the hall when she is told that she is coming, and they meet on the wide steps before Meduseld.

Sírdhem's skirts are spattered with mud and her long braid, Rohirrim-like but for its dark colour, is windswept. Despite the weather and the long journey her eyes brighten when she sees Lothíriel.

'My lady!' she calls with a wide smile, her mischievousness more unburdened than it was before her journey to say goodbye.

They embrace, and Sírdhem remembers to be gentle without Lothíriel reminding her that it has been only three weeks since she gave birth.

'You could have stayed home longer', she says. 'I would not have minded.'

'I am home now, Lothíriel', Sírdhem says. 'I visited all their graves, and did not say anything mean to my sister-in-law who was as unpleasant to me as ever, and I am home now and I do not think I will go back to Anfalas any time soon.'

Lothíriel smiles, though she does not know if it is the right thing to do. 'I am glad you are home. We all missed you. Elfwine asked every day if you were coming back soon.'

Sírdhem laughs and grimaces. 'I missed him too. And your new child – I cannot wait to see him. I heard in Minas Tirith that it is another boy. Is he well, and you?'

'He is very well – my biggest baby so far, with an appetite to match his size – and I am getting there. I'll take you to see him.'

Taking Sírdhem's hand, Lothíriel leads her into the hall and to her group of ladies who have lain aside their work since it is almost time for the midday-meal. They rise to greet Sírdhem, and Bledwyn who is holding Lothíriel and Éomer's as-yet unnamed third child brings him to meet Sírdhem.

There are embraces and smiles and questions all around, and Godliss makes a sweet fuss about Sírdhem, having food and warm drink brought to her at once and a blanket for her lap after travelling on a windy autumn day.

Cuthfleda tells her about the progress they made on the tapestry of the battle on Pelennor fields, Sírdhem's favourite project.

'And you promise that you have not ruined my tapestry while I was gone, Ríel?' Sírdhem teases.

Lothíriel laughs, no offended at this old joke, and relieved at Sírdhem's levity. 'Indeed I have not! Cuthfleda has kept a close eye on me. She knows as well as you my lack of skill compared to you two.'

The six of them, Lothíriel and her ladies, sit close to each other and talk over each other and the short time until the meal passes fast. As they eat they continue sharing news, gossip and progress on various work, and because she insists Sírdhem gets to hold the baby even though it makes eating difficult.

Lothíriel notices Éomer stride into the hall and exchanges smiles with him, but he notices how lively and focused on each other she and her ladies are. He nods and goes to spend the mealtime with his men instead of with Lothíriel as he often does.

After the meal Sírdhem goes to her room to change out of her travel-worn clothes and unpack, and Lothíriel goes with her.

As she sorts through her things and hands to Tuilindien gifts from Dol Amroth, Sírdhem says, 'The way home felt longer than the journey to Anfalas. I am happy that I went, but happier to be back. And I don't intend to go back to southern Gondor, unless it is with you.'

She smiles at Lothíriel, then, playful again despite the pale tiredness that has crept on her face. 'So you and Éomer must begin doing something about what I've been promised all this time – finding me a husband among the Rohirrim. So I can stay.'

'You don't need to marry a man of Rohan to stay in Rohan!' Lothíriel exclaims, adding, 'Do you not know how dear you are to me? You have become my dearest friend; I realised it more than ever while you ever gone. You are my cousin only in blood, but the sister of my heart. I would happily keep you by my side for the rest of my life, even if we do not find you a husband that pleases you.'

Sírdhem embraces her warmly. 'I have no sister but you either, sister of my choice', she says, concealing a sniffle in her elbow as she turns to set a few more trinkets on the table next to Lothíriel. Then she says, changing her tone, 'So is pleasing me the main criterion for the man who would marry me? I thought that he had to be a man of good birth and good station, and one that Éomer trusts and wants to bring close to him or keep close.'

'Those are all important criteria but not as important as you wanting to marry him. There does not need to be great love already, I believe both from what I have been told and from my own experience, but you must want to be his wife or there is little chance of happiness for either of you.'

'Well, then. We shall see what options you have to present for me.'

'Not quite yet', Lothíriel says. 'There is no need yet for anyone to plan for your marriage unless you want to.'

'Not quite yet', Sírdhem echoes. She sits next to Lothíriel and leans her head on her shoulder. They are almost of a height, Sírdhem a little taller now.

They sit in silence for a while, golden rays of the afternoon sun reaching into the room, limning the wooden walls with a lighter, warmer gleam.

'I will always be grateful that you came here with me.' Lothíriel touches the skirt of her dress. 'Even though it means wearing wool dresses even in the summer.'

'That is indeed a great drawback.' Sírdhem chuckles. 'But I have become adept at making and embroidering them, too, as adept as I was with silk.'

'Indeed you have learned many things here, as have I.'

'I am glad that I came', Sírdhem says. 'This is a land of new beginnings for me, and I am beginning another one now.'

'May it be a happy one', Lothíriel replies. 'I trust that it will be.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of this fic :)


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